


looking up

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: Altered & Extended - season 2 [6]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Claustrophobia, Danger, Episode: s02e06 Head Case, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Impaled, Panic, Stand Alone, Team as Family, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:29:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29658291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: The elevator above him is descending at a glacial pace, but advancing nonetheless. It's maybe six feet from the floor when he opens his eyes. Five and a half by the time his brain kicks online. Five by the time he realizes he's going to die if he doesn't do something.
Series: Altered & Extended - season 2 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112852
Comments: 24
Kudos: 98





	looking up

**Author's Note:**

> You know, I loved this episode. But like, can they just give us some injuries??? And a trip to the hospital??? Just once???

Everything hurts.

Literally. Everything.

It's the first thing he becomes aware of as consciousness crashes into him and, just for a moment, he prays for the darkness to claim him once again. The pain washes over him like a tidal wave, the current pulling and pushing so fiercely that it feels like he's being torn apart, ripped limb from limb.

And that's not even his biggest problem.

The elevator above him is descending at a glacial pace, but advancing nonetheless. It's maybe six feet from the floor when he opens his eyes. Five and a half by the time his brain kicks online. Five by the time he realizes he's going to die if he doesn't do something.

But the panic is sinking its claws into him, freezing him in place as the small space becomes infinitely tinier with every inch the elevator descends. Ever since he was locked in that closet nearly fifteen years ago, one of his many nightmares on standard rotation involves being trapped in a room with the walls closing in on him, squeezing tighter and tighter until he can't move, can't even breathe. Until they begin to crush his body between them with an unrelenting force that he _knows_ is going to kill him.

He always wakes with a shout before the walls can actually pulverize him. 

Now, though…

Even in the grips of what's quickly becoming a full blown panic attack — his heart punching against his ribs with such force that he thinks it may just break through, and his lungs spasming and refusing to allow a full breath either in or out — he knows that this nightmare doesn't end up with him screaming through his mouth guard, jerking at his restraints, but safe in bed.

 _This_ nightmare ends far more permanently.

The elevator is maybe four feet above him, spikes of metal aiming menacingly at his face as death chases him in slow motion, when he finally tries to move. The adrenaline that's washing through his veins is the only reason he's able to shift his position at all, but he finds out far too quickly that adrenaline isn't always enough.

Not when his body is still reeling from a three-and-a-half story fall.

He tries to push himself up, just enough to attempt a shimmy towards the small space at the side of the room that looks as if it might just be safe from the elevator's advance, but his ribs absolutely scream at him and suddenly there's a sharp pain in his chest, making it impossible to breathe, halting his progress completely in the span of one failed breath. 

His ribs are most definitely fractured. Probably broken. Possibly about to puncture his lung.

And his head — already pounding relentlessly, feeling like a thousand tiny knives are stabbing at the spot where his skull impacted the floor — begins to spin, his vision weaving in and out of reality, trying to tug him back to another time, another world.

He has just enough strength to nudge his body slightly to the left as he collapses to the ground. With any luck, the spikes of metal that are now only a few feet away will avoid his face as they come down.

Jessica would be devastated if he required a closed casket ceremony.

The world of dreams is waiting for him. The rush of lights — cold blue filtering into warm yellow — calls to him as his eyelids flutter closed, his father's voice echoing from far away, entreating him to return. 

He never gets the chance to find his way back, though (back to a happy and healthy family, to a partner that he can share his life with, to a friend he's always wanted). The painfully slow crawl of the elevator means Malcolm feels every quarter inch of the rebar-like metal as it presses down on his chest just below his right collarbone, ripping through his flesh like a hot knife through butter. The pressure as it first presses down feels like it's going to kill him, but as it slowly drives through his body, he only wishes that it had.

It's excruciating.

A shattered scream rips from his lips, bouncing through the elevator shaft and echoing back to him as the metal moves ruthlessly through him, tearing muscle and veins and flesh until it finally stops as the end of the rod hits the floor.

And then, by the grace of God, everything just...stops.

The bottom of the elevator never meets the floor completely. The rods of metal are the only part of the car that hit the ground, though the double metal brace that spans the width of the elevator — the grid work that the damn spikes are attached to — come dangerously close, considering his body is trapped between them and the floor. One band of metal splays across his shoulders, pressing him against the floor just as firmly as the rod through his chest. The second band of metal, though, lands right on his bottom ribs, pinning him with an unforgiving hold that feels like his bones are being ground to dust, crushing ribs that are surely already fractured. 

He can barely breathe.

But he's alive.

(He's not entirely sure he wants to be.)

He thought he was in pain before, but now, his entire being is awash in an agony like he's never experienced. It's almost as if every nerve in his body is on fire, slowly consuming him from the inside out, devouring him with a determination that can't be swayed.

His throat scrapes raw as he screams out the last of his air, and he begins to loath his mind for preserving its tenuous hold on consciousness when all he wants to do is slip away. When he runs out of air, he realizes just how fortunate he was not to pass out again. If he had, it's possible he never would have been found, just like the owner of the skull next to him, a victim whose family may have never received the closure of knowing they were gone.

Staying conscious (screaming) had one very distinct benefit.

"Bright?" Dani's voice is laced with more than a hint of panic as it floats through the space. Even still, it wraps around him like a warm blanket.

He didn't even realize how cold he was.

"Dani," Malcolm breathes, but it's little more than a whisper, barely making it to his own ears, let alone hers. He can't get his lungs to fill with enough air to call out, to tell them he's down there, to beg them not to leave him there, alone.

Instead of calling out again, he feels around with his left hand, tears blurring his vision as the pain spikes from the movement, but after only a few seconds, his hand wraps around a nearby bone. Thankfully, he doesn't have to stretch for something to bang on. The floor of the elevator is only inches above his face (and a shockwave of panic slams into him at the realization of just how cramped it is, the space infinitely smaller than that closet back at Remington. He whimpers and slams his eyes shut, focusing on the task at hand as his heartbeat picks up to dizzying speeds).

As light as it is, lifting the bone is exhausting, and banging it against the metal is excruciating. The reverberations ring through his bones, aggravating every ache in his body and causing his head to pound with a ferocity that leaves him nauseous, but he doesn't stop. Can't stop.

_Clank. Clank. Clank._

He pauses when he hears JT's voice.

"Jesus Christ. I think he's under the elevator." There's a few seconds of mumbled conversation that Malcolm can't quite make out before JT yells, "Bright, if you're under the elevator, tap twice."

_Clank. Clank._

"Hang tight, Bright. We're gonna send the elevator back up so we can get you out." Dani this time, and while he appreciates the urgency with which they want to get him out, moving the elevator seems like a really, really terrible idea.

He plans to tap a quick staccato against the elevator, a warning to wait, but his tired muscles fumble the bone, dropping it to the floor. As he feels around, calling out as best he can — all to no avail, his breaths are so shallow at this point that he's dizzy with oxygen deprivation and can hardly even whimper, let alone shout — the motor next to him springs to life, a low hum that vibrates through his body.

And then the elevator is moving.

Mercifully, as the metal rod is ripped from his chest, his body finally grants him a slight reprieve, tugging consciousness away from him in one fell swoop.

He's not sure how long he's out for (though this time there was no altered reality waiting for him on the other side, and he hates that he has mixed feelings about that), but when he comes to, it's to find Dani kneeling next to him, pressing hard over the gaping wound in his chest.

And the pain is unbearable. 

His world begins to turn hazy again, but Dani pulls a hand from his chest to tap lightly against his cheek, and Malcolm hurts so much that it doesn't even matter that a bloody handprint, sticky and warm, is left on his face at the contact.

"Hey, none of that," Dani says, leaning over him with her eyebrows furrowed and her lips pulled tight. "I need you to stay awake, Bright."

He doesn't think it's entirely up to him, really.

But he fights to hold on, anyway, forcing himself to focus on his surroundings. It's only as he shifts his eyes around the room that he notices the elevator is so far up that he can't even make out where it is. Judging by the fact that the floor is no longer vibrating beneath him, he knows the motor isn't running anymore, either. And then he notices JT standing near the open doors to the lobby (which are three or four feet off the ground) leaning out slightly into the lobby as he gives quick orders on his phone.

Malcolm has a fleeting thought that the reception is probably terrible in the elevator shaft but then Dani is calling his name again, telling him to keep his eyes open. He doesn't remember shutting them in the first place.

"Ambulance is seven minutes out," JT says. He's kneeling on the other side of Malcolm now, and it's disconcerting because Malcolm can't remember the detective moving and, considering his rather delicate hold on reality right now, he's already having trouble sorting out what's real and what's not.

Except for the pain. There's no question that the pain is _very_ real.

"Mmm," Malcolm's first attempt to speak leaves him lightheaded, unprepared for how much the vibration of his own voice through his chest aggravates both the chest wound and his battered ribs. He takes as deep a breath as he can manage and focuses on just whispering as he tries again. "Skull. Behind you."

Dani spins slightly, looking over her shoulder as she keeps a firm grip on Malcolm's wound. "Is that a human skull?"

Malcolm attempts a small smile, though by the look on Dani and JT's faces, it's wholly unsuccessful and he gives it up almost immediately. "I know who the killer is."

"That's great, bro," JT says, pulling an evidence bag from his pocket and placing the skull inside. "But how about we focus on keeping you from becoming the next victim, first?"

Malcolm is concussed and suffering from massive blood loss and his mind takes a trippy little ride imagining the headlines when the son of a serial killer falls victim to another serial killer. _Clash of the Killers?_ Perhaps. Ainsley always did love a catchy headline. _Serial Killer Skirmish?_ No, that's too much.

"Bright!" Malcolm's eyes shoot open, confusion and pain washing over him in equal measure. He lets out a startled cry as he's pulled back to the present. He doesn't like it here. "Bright, you need to stay awake. How about you tell us who the killer is. Tell us how you figured it out."

He knows Dani is just trying to keep him talking, but there's a very real possibility that this will be his last chance to expose the Bowery Ripper and he's not going to let Rupert Swann get away with two more murders.

"Rupert," Malcolm breathes out. The single word drains his energy reserves and he needs to take a few breaths before he tries again. "Bowery Ripper." Every breath just ignites the pain throughout the body and his next attempt to talk has nothing to do with the case at all. "Hurts."

"Hang in there, bro. You're gonna be—"

The whir of cables tugging over a pulley and the loud hum of the motor cuts JT off, sending three sets of eyes darting up the shaft, watching as the elevator slowly starts to descend.

"Shit," JT practically jumps to his feet, his gaze searching the room frantically, likely for an emergency shut-off switch. "How the hell do you shut this down?"

Dani looks just as worried as JT is, but Malcolm is downright terrified. He can't do it again. He _can't_. The idea of being trapped in that tight space again, of being _impaled_ again leaves him gasping for breath, a pitiful cry of, "No, no, no, no, no," falling from his lips between wheezing gasps.

"Hey, hey, hey," Dani calls out, cupping Malcolm's face gently to help encourage him to look her in the eye. Her expression softens as she leans and quietly but firmly says, "We're not going to let you get hurt again."

He believes her, he really does, but that doesn't stop the fear that's pooling in his belly and making the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end.

"What kind of elevator doesn't have an emergency stop!" JT shouts, looking up to find the elevator only a few floors above them. His eyes drop to Dani as he says, "We need to move him. Now."

He knows it's going to hurt, but he's not prepared for the fire that explodes in his chest as JT scoops him up. 

"Sorry, man," JT grimaces as he walks them to the open doors leading out to the lobby. Dani climbs up first, settling on her knees on the marble floor and reaching back into the shaft to help JT lift Malcolm out, laying him oh-so-carefully on the ground just outside the elevator doors.

JT heaves himself up and scurries back from the shaft just as the elevator car reaches the lobby, narrowly missing losing a foot as the car jolts to a halt at its destination.

With her hand on her weapon, Dani jumps to her feet and moves to check the inside of the elevator, quickly discovering that it's empty.

"Someone sent the car down," she murmurs, looking back to Malcolm's battered body. "They were trying to finish the job."

Malcolm's not entirely sure that Mr. Swann hasn't already done more than enough to claim him as his newest victim, but it's quickly becoming someone else's concern. The art deco lobby begins to fade away around him and this time, it doesn't matter how many times Dani calls his name, he can't seem to make his way back.

~~~

He's so very tired of waking up in hospitals.

As he opens his eyes, a part of him expects to find Dani by his side, teasing him about taking the stairs, but instead, he discovers JT seated next to his bed, glaring at his phone as his thumbs fly over the screen.

"Hey," Malcolm rasps. His throat feels like sandpaper.

JT looks up at the sound, tucking his phone away and hauling himself from the small plastic chair. He moves to the table next to Malcolm's bed and pours a little water into the plastic cup that's sitting there. As the water glugs into the cup, Malcolm realizes he's never been more thirsty in his life and finds himself reaching out for the drink before JT's even turned towards him.

His arm falls to the bed, a groan escaping his lips as he's swiftly reminded of exactly why he's in the hospital in the first place. There are pain killers circulating through his system, but he can still feel his injuries. He can also feel the telltale fog in his head and the strange sensation of knowing his body is in pain while only feeling a fraction of the ache.

A fraction of the ache is still quite a lot.

"Hey, man, take it easy," JT says, holding the cup to Malcolm's lips to pour a slow stream of water into Malcolm's mouth. It's possibly the best thing Malcolm has ever tasted. "There you go, nice and slow."

Malcolm pulls back after a few sips, knowing from experience that drinking is something that needs to be approached slowly.

"Did you get Rupert?" Malcolm asks as JT sets the cup back on the nightstand.

JT arches an eyebrow and huffs out an exasperated breath as he lowers himself back into the chair. "Really dude? You wake up in the hospital and _that's_ the first question you ask?"

Malcolm shrugs lightly. He's alive. There's not much more he needs to know outside of that. But knowing that they solved the case, that they caught the murderer, that the absurd dreams he was subjected to actually served a purpose… _that_ matters.

When Malcolm doesn't offer any explanation outside the shrug, JT huffs again, this time accompanied with an eye roll and what looks like a smirk pulling at his lips. "Mr. Swann confessed to everything, including the attempted murder of an NYPD consultant."

It's oddly vinticating, knowing that his unconscious mind was able to piece together the fragments of clues that he'd gathered while searching the hotel. 

"As for you," JT says, breaking into his reverie with a weighted glance. "You're gonna be fine. The rod that skewered you missed anything vital. I swear, that guardian angel of yours deserves a raise."

Malcolm can't help but chuckle at that. He's never considered himself an especially lucky person but JT might have a point. He's walked away from too many life-threatening situations unscathed (or moderately scathed) for it to be luck.

"You have a few busted ribs and a minor concussion, too. I know it's gonna sound impossible, but you'll have to actually take it easy for a little, bro."

That's...debatable. 

"Yeah, that's probably a good plan, I think I'll sleep for a little. Thank you for everything, JT. Honestly." The former may be a stretch (a downright lie, if Malcolm is honest with himself), but the latter is said with sincerity. JT and Dani saved his life. He's not sure how he can ever repay that debt. But he also despises hospitals and wants out. Now. So he drops his head back to the pillow, letting his eyes flutter closed. "I'm sure Tally is expecting you. Good night, JT."

The yawn starts as an act but quickly turns real as the copious amounts of painkillers flooding his system and the exhaustion of everything he's gone through begins to catch up with him.

"Nice try, man," JT snorts. Malcolm hears the distinct rustle of the man settling back in his seat and discreetly peeks an eye open to see what's happening. JT is relaxed in the chair, staring at him with a skeptical expression he'd swear Jessica must've taught the detective. "We all know the minute you're alone you're checking out AMA. So we've set up a roster. Might as well get comfy, Bright. You're gonna be here a while."

He wants to be angry about that. He really does. But he's having trouble forcing his eyelids open now that they've been closed. The one eye he managed to pry open is making a slow descent that he can't seem to stop. And when the whir of the IV signals his next dose of painkillers is about to hit his system, he mentally gives up his daring escape as a lost cause. 

The most pressing reason he wanted out (his innate hatred of hospitals notwithstanding) was to meet up with Ainsley and finally tell her the truth about Nicholas Endicott. It's time he started working on some of the secrets he's been guarding so fiercely. 

But he supposes one night in the hospital won't make much of a difference.

Tomorrow, though…

Tomorrow he'll talk to Dani, and he'll go see Gil (visions of the man in his father's cardigan are still lingering uncomfortably in his mind). He'll pop by his mother's house to check in on her and make sure she's doing alright. Or, as alright as she can be, all things considered 

And he'll ask Ainsley to come over so they can have that talk in the peace and quiet of his loft.

As he drifts off to the sound of JT texting once again, he finds himself feeling cautiously optimistic about the future. He already feels lighter knowing that he'll be telling Ainsley the truth soon. 

Things are looking up.


End file.
